Call of Duty: Ghosts
by Bradykins98
Summary: There are those who wear masks to protect themselves. And there are those who wear masks to protect us all. Simon Riley is one of those people. After being betrayed and shot, he has to lead a rag-tag ground of 141 and renegade Shadow Company against all comers. Now is the time when he needs his namesake. T for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1: Waking Up

Call of Duty: Ghosts

Chapter One: Waking Up

Pain. A bright, brief flash of pain, then he crumpled to the floor. The bullet had been slowed by his body armour; otherwise he'd be dead already. His rifle fell beside him, useless now. He saw Shepherd out of the corner of his eye, that traitorous bastard, taking the DSM out of Roach's pocket.

He could read men like a book, and he saw no remorse in the General's eyes. Shepherd turned around, and nodded to two of the soldiers with him. Shadow Company, he recognised their uniforms and shoulder patches. So that's why he had them, to replace the 141.

The pain was getting worse now. It bubbled from his shoulder like a volcano, a raging torrent of pain spreading throughout his body. Roach was picked up by the two soldiers first, who unceremoniously dumped him in a ditch nearby. Then they came to him. He forced his body to go limp; otherwise he'd have no chance of survival, no chance of saving Roach and the others.

They picked him up, but before they did, one checked his pulse. His heart sank, as despite all his training and experience, there was no way he could slow down his pulse so low that it was undetectable without killing him. But the one checking his pulse did nothing.

"Yup, this one's already dead." He said. He had a slight Texan twang to his voice, and there was no waver in it. This man was lying to try and save him, he realised. The pain was excruciating now, reminding him of past times, when his life was close to hell on earth.

The two Shadow Company soldiers dumped him in the ditch alongside Roach. There was a dark red patch on his stomach, that was spreading quickly, as well as several more around his legs from the mortar round. _He needs a doctor fast_, he thought, _or his friend might die_.

Then he heard splashing, and felt liquid pour onto him. There was suddenly an acrid stench of oil in the air. _Oh crap_, he thought_, they're going to burn us_. He saw Shepherd at the lip of the ditch, overseeing the two Shadow Company soldiers like a twisted referee of a sports match.

His sunglasses were hiding the man's eyes, so there was no way of Shepherd seeing the glare he was being given. _If you survive Price and Soap_, he silently threatened_, I'll beat you to death with your own balls_. He meant every word. If Price and Soap didn't get Shepherd, he would. The two 141 captains were tough, deadly men, but they were nothing to him when he was angry.

Shepherd pulled a lighter out of his pocket. He noticed, with a flare of anger, that it had the 141 badge on the nickel plated side. He flicked the lid off, and lit it. A small orange flame popped from the surface. He followed that flame as Shepherd tossed it into the ditch, the small near-spark turning into a bright, bold inferno. The pain got even worse now, as flames danced around him.

He didn't notice Shepherd walk away, or one of the Shadow Company soldiers walk with him. He could vaguely hear Price on his radio, but he couldn't make out what the old soldier was saying. He just hoped that the other 141 soldiers made it out of this mess.

It was then he realised that there wasn't any heat any more. The pain was still just as agonising, but the heat had gone. He risked moving his head slightly. There was no fire anymore. He felt himself being dragged out of the ditch, out of death's jaws.

"Don't worry; you're going to be fine." He heard. It was the Texan, the one who had checked his pulse. He let himself relax. At least he had one ally now. The pain was gradually subsiding, retreating back to his shoulder. He moved his legs. Despite some minor burns, they seemed to be fine.

His left shoulder felt like it was on fire, an irony due to his previous situation. He rolled onto his side, and then pushed himself into a sitting position using his right elbow. Then he pushed himself into a crouch, standing up slowly. The Texan was dragging Roach out of the ditch, but trying not to cause him too much damage.

Roach had taken most of the flames, as well as the mortar round and the bullet from Shepherd. He didn't envy his younger friend at all. He helped the Texan drag Roach out of the ditch and onto the grass.

"What the hell are you doing? You need to rest!" He shouted, stunned by his endurance to his wounds. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm fine. It's Roach that needs help." His distinctive British accent was gravelly and coarse, from all the shouting that he'd been doing during the assault on Makarov's compound. The Texan shrugged as well, knowing an argument would do either of them no good.

"Alright. OK, just put pressure on that bullet wound whilst I treat his burns." The Texan ordered. He pressed both hands on the wound, ignoring the pain his shoulder was giving him. Dark red liquid seeped out of the wound, soaking his hands.

"OK, that's his burns treated. I've got the gunshot wound now. Try to raise some help, just be careful, we're monitoring your radio frequencies." The Texan said nervously. He did as the Texan said so, releasing his hold of the wound and flicking his radio on.

"Archer, do you copy, over?" He asked. He didn't care that now they knew Shadow Company, had failed in killing at least one 141 soldier, Roach needed help. Badly, otherwise he'd probably not live to see the next day.  
"This is Archer. I'm seeing you now, what the hell happened, over?" The normally unflinching sniper sounded slightly nervous, having probably seen Shepherd's betrayal using his sniper scope.

"Shepherd's betrayed us. Roach needs a doctor fast, try and make your way to us, over." He could use some extra firepower now.

"We can't. Both Makarov and Shepherd's men are in a fire fight down by the compound, it'd be suicide trying to get across. We'll try and cover you from here; you make your way to us, over." Archer responded. That was a bad situation. With only four able men, and one critically injured, against possibly dozens of armed hostiles, the odds were stacked against him.

"Copy that Archer. Ghost out." He killed the radio connection after that. He limped over to where his rifle lay, and picked it up. He shook the dirt off it, and made sure the magazine was loaded. He then limped back over to the Texan and Roach.

"We need to move. There is a pair of friendly snipers around a klick away, the other side of the compound. That's where we're headed. Let's go."

"What about the casualty?" The Texan asked him.

"Carry him over your shoulder. You got a sidearm?" The Texan nodded, pulling out a Kimber 1911 .45 pistol.

"Then protect Roach. I'll cover you. Follow me." The process was slow, as the Texan had to carry Roach, and he was limping.

"You never told me your name, or his." The Texan nodded towards the unconscious Roach. He kept on moving, sweeping his ACR across the woods up ahead.

"His name's Gary, but his nickname's Roach. As for me, my name's Simon, Simon Riley, but call me Ghost."

**A/N: Hi, Bradykins here. I thought I'd start this story, due to the announcement of Call of Duty: Ghosts, the next CoD game. Its not my impression of what'll happen, but I think now's a good time to start it. There'll be a lot more action in the next chapter as well, just to let you know. **

**Bradykins out.**


	2. Chapter 2: Hot Extract

Call of Duty: Ghosts

Chapter Two: Hot Extract

Pain. A dull, constant rhythm of pain. That's what Ghost was feeling then, as he limped towards the tree line, his ACR raised and sweeping for targets. This was his element, in a hostile warzone, surrounded by enemies. It was where he belonged. The Texan was doing admirably with carrying Roach, and keeping a steady grip on his 1911 as well. He heard gunfire up ahead, the low, staccato rhythm of a 7.62mm machine gun, punctuated by the higher pitched cracks of assault rifles. He signalled for the Texan to stop, and crouched on his better knee. He raised his ACR's sights to his eye, and gave the surrounding landscape slowly. He saw nothing up ahead, so signalled to keep moving.

This continued for several minutes, as they slowly advanced towards the large safe house, sure to be the centre of the battleground between Makarov's men and Shadow Company. Ghost's radio crackled to life.

"Ghost, this is Archer, we've got eyes on you now, keep going straight for another fifty metres, over." The sniper's whisper gave him comfort over the radio.

"Copy that Archer, any hostiles ahead?" He asked, while slowing his limp as he scanned the terrain.

"Two, Shadow Company by the looks of them. Both armed with automatic rifles, looking the opposite way. Do it quietly, over." Archer's response was confirmed by the sound of American voices up ahead. Ghost turned to the Texan.

"Alright, there are two guards up ahead, stay here while I take them out." The Shadow Company soldier nodded, and lay down Roach so he could fix the field dressings that he put on. Ghost crouched down and carried on moving towards the two unsuspecting soldiers. He pulled out his sidearm, a Glock 21, .45 calibre, and screwed on a silencer. The two American voices were clearer now. They were talking about which celebrity singer they wanted to fuck, or something perverse like that. He lowered himself down, onto his belly, and crawled the last ten metres towards them. They had their backs turned to him, and Ghost positioned himself so he could stand up easily.

He counted in his head, one, two, three, four. When he reached eight, his lucky number, he sprang up, ignoring his leg's protest, and performed the Mozambique Drill on the two Shadow Company soldiers, putting two rounds in their centre mass, and one in each of their heads. He felt his Glock kick back six times, heard six thumps in the air, and six shell casings land on the floor. He first saw the drill in action during a Michael Mann film aged fifteen, when he took out a girl to see it at the cinema. The two soldiers slumped forward, the backs of their heads missing, and two ragged holes in each of their bodies. _Smooth_, Ghost thought, and then limped back off to find the Texan.

Ghost found him tending to Roach, reapplying the bandages that he had put on around the wounded man's legs.

"We need to move." Ghost said simply. The Texan looked up and nodded, picking up Roach in the same manner he had before. The two soldiers then continued on their march.

"Ghost, this is Archer. Looks like there's someone still standing in the safe house, might want to check it out, over." Ghost's radio crackled to life. _Good and bad_, he thought,_ one more person to rescue, but one more man to have watching my six_.

"Copy that Archer; give me covering fire when I'm in the open, over." He ordered his two snipers. Ghost and the Texan were nearly on a ridgeline, and Ghost signalled to stop.

"Wait here with Roach. Try and get any more of your buddies on our side if you can, but if not, two in the head. Understood?" He asked the Shadow Company soldier. Said soldier nodded in reply, placing down Roach and un-slinging his M4 carbine from his back. Ghost then checked the load on his ACR, using the meter on his P-Mag, then crawled up onto the ridgeline to see what was happening.

The sight he saw was utter chaos. Nearest to him were five Shadow Company soldiers, two with M240B's and the rest with assault rifles of different make, providing suppressing fire to the rest of Shadow Company as they moved up. Around a hundred metres east from the safe house was a group of a dozen Ultranationalists, making a last stand against the far superior numbers of Shadow Company. Another group were in a similar predicament in the safe house itself, as Shadow Company assault teams cleared the rooms one by one. _Scarecrow's in there_, Ghost thought. _But I need to deal with those MG's over there_.

He unclipped a frag grenade from his tactical vest. He estimated the Shadow Company fire support were twenty yards away, easily in his throwing range. He pulled out the firing pin of the grenade. He waited two seconds, before lobbing the grenade at them. The grenade arced gracefully through the air before landing in the middle of the group. It exploded with a loud bang, sending shrapnel everywhere, tearing the five Shadow Company soldiers apart.

But Ghost didn't see this. By the time the grenade had exploded, he was halfway between where he threw the grenade and the safe house. It was only a fifty metre sprint, if he wasn't injured, he'd do it quicker. He reached the safe house and stood against the wall, checking the area behind him for contact. He was still in the clear. He risked a peek out at the battlefield. The fighting was still intense, and the Ultranationalists were slowly being overrun, but they were giving it as good as they got. He moved low and fast, stock in his shoulder, sights up, as he moved towards the basement entrance to the safe house.

He waited for a second at the door. He picked up a pebble from the ground, and threw it in. The pebble bounced around noisily, but still quiet compared to the gunfire above. Ghost heard nothing. So the ex-SAS soldier swerved round into the room, clearing it in three seconds flat. The room was in chaos. Someone had clearly thrown a grenade in there, and there were two corpses, lying in pools of blood. One Russian, one Shadow Company. He didn't need to check pulses, there was so much blood. So far, so good.

Ghost walked silently towards the stairs leading upwards, keeping his rifle raised, despite the strain on his injured shoulder. He reached the foot of the stairs, and spun round, so he was facing the way he came in, still with his sights to his eye. He took a careful step backwards, his foot touching the first step. He took another, and another, and another. Soon he was halfway up the stairs, and in front of him now was the kitchen. His heart was thumping like a parade drum. No one thought he had even heard of the word fear, but he was bloody terrified then. A Victoria Cross and a Distinguished Service Cross didn't make you fearless. Ghost lowered his rifle, comforting his throbbing shoulder, and stood against the wall. He heard voices upstairs in the kitchen.

"So when do you think help will come?" A familiar American voice asked. So it was Scarecrow that was still alive.

"No idea, but it better be soon, да?" A Russian accent answered, sounding nervous.

"It doesn't matter Karzov," Another man, speaking in Russian said, "We'll hold, and help will come, and we'll get out of here. Don't worry so much, friend." This man was clearly a leader. As Scarecrow had decided they were his allies, so would Ghost. Any help was better than none now.

"Scarecrow, this is Ghost. That you, mate?" He shouted, still standing behind the wall. He heard four weapons swing towards the sound of his voice.

"Ghost! Jesus man, thought you were dead. Fucking good to see you." The American 141 soldier sounded relieved, then said in Russian. "Don't worry. This man is my commander, and a good fighter. Lower your weapons." Ghost didn't hear any such lowering, apart from Scarecrow. The Russians weren't going to budge.

"Look, I'm going to put my weapons down on the floor now, and then I'm going to step out. I need to know that no one will shoot me, okay?" Ghost shouted, speaking in Russian. All 141 soldiers learnt the most common languages in the world, including Arabic, French, English, Spanish, Russian and German; mainly so they could blend in anywhere.

"You do that, comrade; just don't come out with guns blazing. You'll end up like the other Americans." It was then that Ghost noticed the three dead Shadow Company near where he was standing. They were riddled with bullets, all their fancy body armour and helmets useless against 7.62mm AK's up close. Ghost carefully put his rifle on the nearest stair, and then his Glock. His heart was pounding like mad now, sweat dripping off his fabric covered brow, despite the chills of Russian autumn. _Fuck it,_ he thought, _I'll either die today, or another day, no point in being scared about it_.

He stepped out into the open.

* * *

**A/N: Aaaand that's a cliffhanger for you folks! Sorry about the long update, it's just I'd written most of this chapter then my laptop spazzed out and lost it, then broke so I had to get a new one (which is so much better!), plus all my hobbies and sports (all 6 days of them) plus school and exams, and I'm so busy at the moment writing has had to take a lower priority. But no more, some of my hobbies have ended for summer, exams are over now, and it's summer! So I'll be writing loads more now. Thank you SO much for all the reviews by the way. 8 freaking reviews! That's a massive amount for one chapter for me, and I'd like to thank you for the support. By the way, this is in no way COD: Ghosts, as if any of you have seen the trailer (if you haven't, check it out on YouTube) its a completely new story, which should be pretty cool. By the way, I have some exiting news: I'm writing a book! I will finish it too. Check Amazon Kindle over the next year (or two) and look out for it. If it get's published, I'll share the title of it with you guys first, the ones who inspire me to write. Anyway, it's late, and I need sleep. Night all!**

**Bradykins out.**

**PS: I'd like you spare a moment for Drummer Lee Rigby, the British soldier killed in the brutal Woolwich attack. The bastards (pardon my french) deserve to hang for it. This story is dedicated to Drummer Rigby, and the hope that no more families will have to endure that kind of suffering, and that one day we can all live peacefully, and cooperate together for a better tomorrow. **

**RIP Lee Rigby, and all those who are victims of terrorism.**


	3. Chapter 3: Shorelines

Call of Duty: Ghosts

Chapter 3: Shorelines

As he stepped out in that stairway, Ghost was reminded of a quote that a SEAL once told him, about how he left his three-month old child to go on a six month deployment in Iraq. _My family is so important to me, but so is serving my country, and my friends. That's my code, my shoreline; it's what guides me home. Trust me; you're always trying to get home._ Those three sentences had dictated how Ghost had served for the last eleven years. Now he was scrapping that entirely. His country had screwed him more than his girlfriend back in Hereford, and he had no family. Not anymore. It was just his men, and him. Soap and Price had gone silent; they could be dead, or worse. There were two Russians in the room, aiming AK's at him. Scarecrow was missing his helmet and balaclava, his hazel eyes betraying his fear.

"Okay, lower your weapons, this guy's on our side." He said to the Russians in their native language. They refused to do so.

"Why should we. He'd have killed us half an hour ago." The older one, the leader said. He was clearly a combat veteran, with a brutal-looking scar on his face, black hair graying at the edges and green eyes.

"You would have killed me too, half an hour ago." Ghost said, stating the obvious. "You'd have killed Scarecrow too, half an hour ago. But now we need to work together, otherwise it'll be us, not them that get killed." He said, also in Russian. The younger Russian, Karzov, lowered his rifle at this. The leader looked at him, annoyed at his agreement.

"Come on Dima. The Englishman's right." Finally the older Russian lowered his rifle, a scowl on his scarred face.

"You fuck around with me; I put a bullet in your head. You understand?" He said bluntly.

"Same here, mate." Ghost nodded, whilst muttering in English. He was glad that the confrontation was over though. "So what's the situation?" He asked Scarecrow.

"Shadow Company has taken the upstairs rooms, but we've got them pinned down up there now. There's another two of us downstairs, in the office. But they're running low on ammo, and they could really use a hand."

"What about you?" Ghost asked. He'd need a soldier he could trust, and he hoped Scarecrow would be alright.

"I'll be okay. Took a through-and-through in the calf, but I can manage." The American said, before pushing himself up using his SCAR-L assault rifle.

"Come with me then. We're going upstairs to clear those rooms, and get any supplies from there that we can." Ghost replied, before turning to the two Russians. "I need you two to check the basement, make sure no one is there, and gather as much as you can from the armory down there.

"Why should we take orders from you?" Dima, the older one snapped back. Ghost was getting annoyed by his attitude.

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realize you wanted the option that involves unknown number of hostiles in a tight environment, where you only have one mucker behind you? If you want to go upstairs, feel free?" He said in a patronizing, sarcastic manner. The Russian scowled, before standing up.

"This isn't over Englishman." He growled, before running to the basement. The younger Russian, Karzov, apologetically smiled.

"Sorry about Dima. He's a bit grouchy at the best of times." He said meekly, before following his older comrade downstairs.

"Alright then, let's go. Once we're done here, I'll take you to where Roach is being treated for his injuries." Ghost said to Scarecrow.  
"Wait, you mean Roach is hit?" Scarecrow said, horrified. He and Roach were close friends, so it would be natural for Scarecrow to be worried.

"Hey, stay focused. He'll be fine." Ghost said, trying to keep Scarecrow's mind off Roach. He knew from experience that worrying about someone in a combat zone never turned out well for you. He beckoned for the American to follow him, whilst raising his ACR to his shoulder. The two men had their rifles raised at the staircase, walking sideways to keep their rifles trained on the staircase. They reached the foot of the stairs, spotting the two men that Scarecrow had mentioned. Wielding two L86A2 LSW's, looted from Makarov's armoury; they were in a prime suppressive fire position. Ghost remembered wielding an L86A2 in his first tour of Iraq, as his fire-team's machine gunner. They gave the two 141 men thumbs up, which they returned_. At least these seem friendly_, Ghost thought. He and Scarecrow worked as he had done on the basement stairs. Step by step, second by second. Sweat was beginning to cloud his sunglasses, and not for the first time did Ghost wonder why he wore them, and his mask. Then images flashed through his head. Bad ones.

Two Years Before

"Again." The smack of a punch and the flash of pain brought Simon back from his daze. The harsh Mexican sun glared down on him. He was wearing nothing but a pair of grubby, bloodstained once white boxers. There was no life around him, just him, Roba and two of his men. Manuel Roba. He'd learnt to hate that name so, so well recently. He couldn't remember the date, not that he cared either. Now it was just survival. He was past being scared. He'd wet himself for the first time since he was three, after he'd been thrown in a pitch-black box no bigger than the inside of a family car with a cobra. Heavy metal had drilled its way into his skull, repeatedly torturing his eardrums with its screeching vocals, thrumming guitars and crashing bass, as he sat in there, shivering, listening to each bone-chilling hiss the cobra gave. They brought him out two days later, finding the cobra's neck snapped, and two bite marks on Riley's arm. He was delirious, dehydrated and desperate for escape. Any escape, just a way to scream a 'Fuck you!' at Roba with a two-fingered salute, to scream that he wasn't theirs, nor would he ever be.

"Give in Riley. It won't work." It was that traitorous bastard, Vernon, which spoke. He said nothing. Roba gave a nod to his man. Another smack, another flash of pain. His hands were resting at his sides, the bonds cut. He hadn't had them replaced after Vernon had taken him on that day.  
"How's your nose Vernon?" He asked, his throat parched, his voice raspy, but still with his distinctive British accent. If he remembered rightly, he'd broken Vernon's nose during their bout.

"You did that a month ago." Damn. He could have sworn - another smack, another flash of pain wrecked his train of thought. Roba just stood there, the fat bastard, with his arms crossed, an impassive look on his face. Vernon stood a little closer, arms at his sides, bald spot burning under the intense sun. He looked slightly annoyed. Roba's man was even closer, a couple of feet away. He had a gun tucked into his belt, a Walther PPK by the looks of it. Simon wasn't really a fan of the Walther, but it'd do for now. He was on his knees, giving him extra momentum. He might not have been thinking straight, but it was his only plan.

"So, Mr Riley, you want to give up now?" It was Roba, the slimy prick's smooth accent crystal clear to Simon, even in his state.  
"Why give up now?" He asked no one in particular, discreetly balling a small rock into his right fist. "The fun's just beginning." Simon sprang up smacking Roba's man on the head with his right fist while wrapping his left arm around the mans waist. Roba and Vernon pulled out handguns as he smashed the rock into the man's head, leaving a large dent and small cut. The man would die from massive internal bleeding and brain damage within minutes. Judging that Vernon would be the biggest threat, given his SF training, Simon threw the rock at his head. He went down, bleeding from a gash. Simon grabbed the PPK, firing it twice from the hip at Roba in rapid succession. The sharp crack of the pistol echoed in the desert, and pumped adrenalin through him. He raised his arm and squeezed the trigger twice more at Roba. The Mexican crouched low and recoiled away from the bullets, which were tearing up chunks of the dried dirt. Simon threw down the man he had a hold of and turned to run.

He didn't look back to see if he'd hit Roba, no time. He stumbled through the desert, keeping a good hold on the Walther, finger off the trigger in case he shot himself. He was staggering and stumbling, half-blind thanks to the sun glaring down on him. He turned around, and fired a couple of wild shots from his pistol. He kept on stumbling, and turned around. He was around fifty metres away from Roba and Vernon, who was still down. Roba was another matter. He was on his feet and was pulling out a handgun from his holster. He aimed this time, and fired. Bang, bang, bang, bang. The gun kicked back four times, before the slide locked back and he heard a dull click. He threw away the empty gun, turned and started running again.

Simon guessed he was at least seventy metres away. He was going to make it. He screamed and whooped with joy, whilst continuing to run. He was free. He was – he felt something smash into his side, spinning him round. He gasped with the shock. He somehow picked himself up and kept running. His hand reached down to his side, and felt wet. He looked down and saw red running down his fingers, trickling like a deadly stream. Then the pain hit. His side was suddenly on fire, and Simon fell down again, but picked himself up. His vision was blurring, ear's ringing. He was gasping for air. He looked behind him. Roba was walking at a lazy pace, casually holding a Beretta 92F in his hand. A bullet had grazed his cheek, which had a long gash on it, blood flowing down his flabby cheek. Simon turned around again and kept moving. _Can't give in,_ he thought, _got to make it home, back to Tommy, and Sarah. That's my shoreline._

Sarah. Oh God he missed her. Missed her so much. He only just realized it now. He remembered how they first met.

_"So you're in the army?" The pretty brunette said, smiling at him. _

_"Yeah. Just come back from Iraq." He took a sip of his beer after he said that. God, she was pretty. He could stare at that face all day. The music was good, the beer better, the woman the best. He was enjoying that night._

_"Was it scary?" She asked, curious, taking a sip of her own beer. Suddenly, a really drunk guy, small but wide, came up to her. As in, stumbled up to her. _

_"Hey girl, suck my dick?" He blurted out, followed by a hiccup. She looked disgusted, and anger flared in him. He hated it when men talked to women like that. His mother had taken enough of that from his dad. Thank god the old bastard died a year ago. _

_"Fuck off you disgusting prick." She scoffed at the drunk. Unfortunately, he wasn't taking no for an answer. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her close to him. _

_"That wasn't a question." That was it. _

_"Oi, show her a bit of bloody respect you knob!" Simon barked at the man. He turned to him, startled. _

_"I'm sorry. This doesn't concern you. So fuck off." He slurred, before turning to the pretty brunette again. "Lets go somewhere more private." He tried to drag her off, and she slapped him. He turned round, and threw a lazy punch at her direction. Simon caught the wrist before he hit her, and punched him in the face. The small men fell to the floor, with clubbers everywhere backing off. He picked himself up, and charged at Simon. He threw a punch. Simon ducked, and wrapped the drunk's arm around his waist, spinning round so the man could only hit his back, which was much harder than his chest or waist. He sent his left elbow into the man's face; colliding with cartilage and hearing it crack under the brutal impact. He let go of the drunk, and let him fall to the floor. His nose was broken, and he looked like he had a tooth missing from Simon's first punch. He staggered off instantly._

_A small crowd cheered and clapped for him, as they had seen the events that had happened. But the best thing that he saw was the look on the pretty brunettes face. _

Jesus, she'd be worried. He kept on staggering, his thoughts full of the girl who he loved, and his brother. He'd cleaned himself up, and had gotten married. Tommy had nearly been the proudest man at the altar, but his big brother Simon was even prouder. That was his shoreline. He would see Sarah again. He swore he would. His legs gave out from under him, and everything went dark.

**A/N: Well isn't this nice. Two chapters within a fortnight of each other? What madness is this? Anyway, hi again. I wanted to do that little flashback then, just to add a little personal depth to Ghost, so you know what he's been through, and you know what his 'shoreline' is, to make him seem more real as a character, whilst adding some action in it. Don't worry, there won't be too many flashbacks, and they'll add a little sub-plot to the story. Next chapter is going to be a brutal one, as Ghost and Scarecrow take on unknown (to them and you!) number of Shadow Company. And these aren't like the Texan. Speaking of the mysterious Shadow Company soldier, more will be revealed about him later in the story, and he is meant to keep you guessing, like Ghost did when he originally charged onto your screens in MW2. So, that's the chapter. **

**Bradykins out.**


	4. Chapter 4: Room by Room

Call of Duty: Ghosts

Chapter 4: Room by Room

The whole flashback lasted less than a second in Ghost's mind. He shook himself out of his memories, and back to the present. _Stay focused Riley, _he told himself,_ you've got people depending on you_. He wiped the sweat off his sunglasses as he moved cautiously up the stairway. Scarecrow was on his left, SCAR-L raised into his shoulder. He heard talking, in a low whisper, up the stairs. He raised his ACR on instinct. The ACOG sight he had fitted onto it magnified the world it saw by four, so instead he aimed down the mini red-dot sight that was 'piggybacking' on top.

It was a recent addition to the 141's armoury, and personally Ghost loved it. He raised his left hand to signal Scarecrow to stop. The two 141 men stood there, silently awaiting a hail of bullets to come flying through a doorway. No such gunfire erupted, and the two continued their advance. Ghost's breathing was heavy, nerves on a knifes edge. It occurred to him that maybe Scarecrow had been mistaken, that maybe there was no one alive up here. A gunshot shattered that train of thought.

The bullet struck the wooden wall that Ghost was stood next to, showering him in splinters.

"Contact front, five metres!" He screamed above the gunfire as he spotted a muzzle flash in the room ahead of them. He opened fire on semi-automatic, not wanting ricochets in the tight CQB environment. Bang, bang, bang, the gunfire was nearly deafening in the close quarters. He heard a dull thump to his right, and then an explosion knocked him backwards. His hearing was shot; all Ghost could hear were bells ringing. He climbed to his feet, stumbling around and fumbling for the wall for support. He couldn't find his rifle, so he pulled out his Glock 21, unscrewing the suppressor.

A 40mm grenade must have been fired, and, although Ghost wasn't hit by shrapnel, the shockwave was what knocked him back. He saw someone step out into the stairway. It wasn't Scarecrow. He raised his Glock, in a two handed grip, and fired. He hit the man in the chest, the big .45 calibre round slotting him in one shot. Ghost ran up the stairs, seeing the man he shot dead on the floor, blood pooling around him already.

He found his rifle at the top of the stairs, coved in a thin layer of dust and debris. Ghost picked it up, and checked to make sure it was in working order. It was fine, unlike him. His hearing wasn't quite right, and he was still dazed. _Just a concussion,_ he told himself, as he raised the sling over his shoulder, so he didn't loose his rifle again. He heard footsteps behind him, so Ghost instantly turned around, raising his rifle to his shoulder. It was Scarecrow. He was covered in dirt, and had a cut above his right eyebrow, which drenched the right side of his face in blood.

"You alright?" He asked Ghost, who nodded in return.

"My rifle's messed up pretty bad, but my sidearm still works well." Scarecrow told him, pulling out his HK45C and cocking the pistol.

"Follow me." Ghost replied, and walked past Scarecrow, sights raised. The other 141 soldier turned around, and instinctively raised his pistol in a two-handed grip, facing side-on with his left shoulder forward. The two men walked forwards at a steady pace, before coming to the door of the room. It had already been blown off its hinges when the 141 had breached it, but the door had been crudely put back in the doorway as a makeshift barricade. It'd be no match for the two men. They took position on either side of the doorway. Ghost decided to make their presence known.

"Alright. I know you can hear me. I'm going to give you a choice now." He said loudly, making himself heard. "I was born in October. When I reach that month, we're going to go in there and kill you all. Any of you that choose to come out, with your weapons unloaded, and hands up will be spared. Your choice, fella's." He finished his ultimatum.

"January." He started the countdown. He made sure his Glock and his ACR had a full magazine, and Scarecrow did the same with his HK. "February." He placed the rifle's stock into his shoulder, and adjusted it to the shortest length, for close-quarter-fighting. "March." Still no response. "April." _Come on, _Ghost thought, _just bloody come out._ "May." Nothing. "June." They weren't coming out. "July." Scarecrow did a brass check on his HK, pulling the slide back partially to reveal the chambered round, yet not ejecting it. "August." He let the slide go and cocked the hammer, hearing the dull click and reassuring him.

"September." Ghost pulled a flash-bang out of his webbing, handing it to Scarecrow. "October." He flicked off the safety catch on his rifle. The tension was as thick as a Challenger II Main Battle Tank's front armour. Scarecrow kicked down the door, pulled the pin from the flash-bang and lobbed it into the room.

The thunderous crack and the flash of white light signalled Ghost to burst into the room, rifle raised, fire selector on full-auto, finger on the trigger. He saw one man stumble backwards, dressed all in black. Ghost aimed for his centre mass, killing the man with a four round burst. Scarecrow practically ran into a man that was trying to stab Ghost on the back, and pumped two rounds into his side at point blank range. Ghost spotted two more Shadow Company soldiers raising MK-18 carbines, short-barrelled M4's at him. He turned to fire at them, squeezing the trigger. He emptied the magazine into them, before something smacked his rifle out of his hands.

The last Shadow Company soldier alive had a Beretta M9 pointed at him in one hand, readjusting his aim. Suddenly a single shot rang out, and the man fell to the floor, the top of his head and one eye missing, blood spurting out of the fatal wound. Scarecrow lowered his pistol.

"You good?" He asked Ghost, walking over to the first man Ghost shot, picking up his SCAR-L.

"Yeah, thanks for that." Ghost replied, in a state of slight shock from his near-death encounter. _Fucking hell Riley,_ he mentally scolded himself, _that was too close_.

"Don't mention it. Your rifle's screwed by the way. Took that guy's round to the receiver." Ghost's heart sunk. His rifle had been with him for nearly two years, ever since he joined the 141. Now he'd have to leave it behind.

"Damn." Was all he said, pulling out his Glock again.

The two men exited that room, keeping their sights raised. Scarecrow took point now, their roles reversed, with Ghost lacking firepower.

The next room they went in was empty. There were several Ultranationalist corpses in it, clearly having been killed hours ago. _Good ol' Roach,_ Ghost instantly thought, _hard as bloody nails_. The next was in a similar state. There was one last room to clear. Suddenly gunfire erupted downstairs, and screams could be heard. The two 141 soldiers spun round, weapons raised. Nothing came up.

Ghost signalled for Scarecrow to go downstairs and see what was going on. He nodded, and moved back the way they had come. Ghost turned around, and continued pushing forward, Glock raised in both hands. _One room left, _Ghost told himself, _nice and easy_. He heard a faint click, and halted. The click was followed by another. He knew what it was instantly. _Oh shit, _he thought as a hail of bullets suddenly spurted out from the open doorway.

He ran back the way he came, bullets chasing his every step, before diving to the floor. He covered his head with his hands as bullets flew over him, splintering the wooden walls on both sides of him. _Light-machine-gun, seven-six-two, _Ghost instinctively identified it, _probably an M60_. The deafening roar of the machine-gun filled the air, and florescent tracers zipped and cracked above Ghost's head. The torrent of gunfire ceased as quickly as it had begun, and Ghost heard the firer reloading, whilst walking slowly out of the room.

He climbed to his feet, and crouched down on one knee, Glock raised to where the firer's body would be. Out of the doorway stepped a giant of a man, clad in full-body armour, wielding, as Ghost had guessed, an M60 machine-gun. He was at least 6"6, compared to Ghost's 6"1, with a chest like a bear and long bulky arms.

_This'll be fun_, Ghost joked sarcastically in his mind, before he stood to his feet and charged.

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**A/N: Thought I'd put in some violence and a cliffhanger for ya'll, instead of some plot and character development. Sorry about the long update time and the shortness of the chapter, but I've just returned from a brilliant week-long cadet camp and I've never been more tired in my life. Seriously, I was doing a drill display with my Air Cadet squadron today, and during the practice I was falling asleep whilst standing to attention. Anyway, waffling on there, back on topic. Eighteen reviews! You guys are the best, averaging to six reviews per chapter. Thank you. Heads up, this juggernaught (couldn't resist) is going to take up most of the next chapter, and it's going to be one brutal fight. Just one last thing, there's a TV show out there called 'Strike Back', I'd seriously check it out if you haven't seen it, I base some of the action in this from that show , and it's great. Well that's it for this chapter.**

**Bradykins out.**


	5. Chapter 5: Hand-To-Hand

Call of Duty: Ghosts

Chapter 5: Hand-to-Hand

Ghost fired as he charged at the walking tank, pumping all thirteen rounds of his magazine into him. It wouldn't do much against the amount of armour the man was wearing, but it did knock him off balance as he raised the M60. Ghost dropped his Glock, and rugby-tackled the man to the floor, using the lack of balance the man had after being shot thirteen times to his advantage. Ghost landed heavily on top of the man as he fell, and ripped off his helmet. The walking tank was clearly a combat veteran, with a face covered in dozens of scars. He was bald, with dark brown eyes.

Ghost punched him in the face, bursting his lip. He then hit the inside of the tank's wrist, on the arm that was holding the M60, causing him to let go of it. Ghost tossed it away, and then punched the man in the face again. The tank gritted his teeth in pain as Ghost landed another punch, knocking two molars out. As Ghost raised his fist for another punch, the tank flipped him over like he was made of paper. _Christ, this guy's strong,_ Ghost thought.

The two combatants were up on their feet in an instant. Ghost ducked under a punch and sent an elbow into the man's ribcage, before bringing his fist up and upper-cutting the man on the chin. Ghost used his momentum to roundhouse kick the man in his side, before kneeing him in the gut. The tank recoiled from the brutal offensive, before catching Ghost's fist in his hand and delivered a punch to Ghost's face that swung into his right cheek like a sledgehammer. Ghost staggered into the wall, and then the tank grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face into the wall. He then slugged Ghost in the stomach, winding him, before booting him in the chest. Ghost fell backwards, but somehow found the strength to get back up.

He stepped out of the range of a Haymaker and countered with two punches to the stomach, followed by an elbow to the face. He heard the tank's nose break, and blood dripped from the wound. Ghost threw another punch, but the tank ducked under it, and picked up Ghost by his waist. With a roar of anger, he charged towards the far wall, carrying Ghost over his shoulder. The two men slammed into the wall, and Ghost cried out in agony. The tank released his grip on Ghost, and punched the British soldier in the ribs and midriff repeatedly. Ghost recoiled from the attacks, and covered his ribs with his arms, before upper-cutting the tank again, causing him to stagger back. Ghost followed it up with two punches to the face, before reaching up and grabbing the back of the man's head with both hands, before smashing it down on his knee. The tank staggered backwards, towards the staircase, spitting out teeth and blood.

Ghost charged the tank, and tackled him down the stairs. The two fighters tumbled down the stairs. Ghost felt one rib crack, and another take a bruising. His side flared in pain as he climbed to his feet. The tank was up on his feet already, and Ghost barely ducked under a vicious punch. He sent an elbow into the man's midriff, and another elbow to the chin, following it up with a boot to the chest as he staggered back. He scrambled back up the stairs, an idea suddenly forming in his mind. The tank gave chase, and grabbed his ankle, but a boot to the face freed him.

Ghost tripped on a stair and fell down, and that was all the tank needed. He climbed on top of Ghost and turned him over, beginning to relentlessly smash his fists into Ghost's face. The British soldier saw stars, then rubber ducks, then more stars. He felt the familiar metallic taste of blood in his mouth, then blinding hot pain. He screamed in pain as the tank dug his thumb into his bullet wound, twisting and turning, with a snarl on his face. Ghost snapped out of his daze, and kneed the man where the sun won't shine. The tank gave a similar scream of pain to Ghost's, before being shoved off him. Ghost punched the tank in the face four times, before sending an elbow into his throat. The tank gasped for air as Ghost raced up the rest of the stairs before he could recover.

He reached the top, and instantly began searching for his Glock 21.

"Come on," He muttered to himself, "where the fuck is it?" He heard footsteps behind him, and turned round as a fist flew towards him. He ducked just in time, and lashed out with a haymaker that sent the tank staggering. Ghost then turned round and continued his search for the Glock. As he spotted it, what felt like a train smashed into his back, sending him flying to the floor. He was turned over, and the tank strangled him with a vice-like grip. He gasped as the air was forced out of his lungs by a knee to his belly. With one hand, he felt around the tank's fingers as he desperately tried to breathe. Thankfully, the tank had made one fatal mistake.

Ghost pressed down on the open fingers of the tank's right hand, feeling the fingers slowly snap. The grip only tightened. He did the same with the other hand as spots appeared in his vision. His other hand finally reached what it had been searching for as the tank roared curses that'd make Gordon Ramsay blush.

The Glock might be unloaded, but it'd still hurt if it hit someone.

His vision was going dark as he thrust his thumb into the corner of the tank's eye, and twisted. More profanities, but this time the tank took one hand off Ghost's throat and grabbed his wrist, trying to force his hand used the respite to draw several quick breaths, clearing his vision, and twisted his thumb harder, drawing blood. Nearly every word the tank was saying now was a profanity that would probably offend every deity known to man, and some besides. _One, two, three, four, _Ghost began counting in his head. The tank was using both hands to try and pull Ghost's hand away from his eye by the time he reached six. By seven, he had managed to get his breath back slightly as his hand moved gradually away from the tank's eye. _Eight._

Ghost swung the Glock towards the side of the man's head. It connected with furious force, sending the tank sprawling. Ghost climbed to his feet slowly, taking in deep breaths, gasping for air. The tank was just as slow, shaking his head and wobbling like a drunk. Ghost pulled a new magazine out of his tactical vest for his Glock, and took out the empty one, placing it back in his vest for later use. He slammed the fresh mag in, and was about to cock the gun, but the tank threw a punch, that glanced off his bad shoulder. That made Ghost realise just how much pain he was in, and how tired he was. He dropped the Glock by accident as his hand rushed to clutch his wounded shoulder.

A .44 Magnum round, even though it was slowed down by the short range, and his body armour, still packed a ferocious punch, and was worse than any other time Ghost had been shot. He shook the pain away, and sidestepped a head-butt, responding by kicking the tank in the knee. He shouted in pain and fell down onto one knee. The tank somehow found the strength to get back on both feet, and threw another desperate punch towards Ghost, which he again sidestepped.

"Just, fucking, die." The tank growled. It was probably the corniest thing Ghost had ever heard.

"Really? Just fucking die? That all you got?" He sarcastically spat at his opponent, throat dry and hoarse.

"I'm all out." The response was simple, but the fact the man charged him after that proved that it was just insults he was out of. Ghost grabbed the man by his body armour, and spun him round as he charged, slamming him into the wall. He punched the tank in the face, sending him staggering, and again, before he grabbed his webbing, and head-butted him down the stairs. The tank fell backwards, falling over himself once, twice, before landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Ghost got a glimpse of the tank's face. He looked like shit, two teeth missing, broken nose, bloodshot and bleeding eye, bruised to hell. But one thing struck Ghost like the tank's punches. He was scared.

"I don't want to"- A deafening thunderclap prematurely ended the tank's last sentence, smoke and little chunks of body parts flying everywhere. The shockwave hit Ghost, but he stayed stood.

Ghost dropped the pins of the grenades he had just pulled, hearing them hit the floor like a pin. He'd pulled them on the tank's webbing, as he head head-butted him. He heard gunfire, from downstairs, and walked towards his Glock 21. He picked it up, and cocked the gun, the metallic click reassuring him. He held it in one hand as he walked towards the final room that needed to be cleared, the one the tank was originally in. He stacked up against the wall, changing his grip to a two-handed one. He swept into the room, Glock raised. He saw a body sitting, leaning against the wall, and instantly snapped towards the centre mass.

It was a Shadow Company soldier, without a balaclava. Or a helmet. The soldier looked more like a schoolboy though. He was holding an FN Five Seven pistol on Ghost, in a shaking grip. He looked terrified, with blood and dirt and sweat staining his face, blue eyes wide.

"D-d-d-drop the gun." The Shadow Company soldier said weakly. Ghost noticed he was holding his side, which had a spreading wet patch against the black cloth. "Just drop the gun." The man, hell, no, boy repeated. His arm was shaking worse now. Ghost adjusted his aim as he read the boy's surname on his uniform. _Webb_.

"Webb, that your name? Webb?" Ghost asked softly. The boy nodded. "Alright, Webb. You've been shot. There's nothing I can do to help you. I'm sorry but you're going to die." He said bluntly, without emotion. Christ, the boy even looked like Joseph.

_"Oh wow! A fighter jet! That's so cool Uncle Simon! You're the best uncle ever."_

Ghost snapped the flashback out of his mind.

"That's okay, I guess. Everyone dies in the end." That stunned Ghost, Webb's acceptance of death. It didn't stop him squeezing the trigger. The .45 round hit Webb's forehead in under a second, snapping it backwards. The bullet travelled through his head in under a second again, before coming out the other end and taking half of the back of his head with it. Blood and brain matter splattered the wall behind Webb, and smeared Ghost's MTP trousers. Webb's body went limp, and his arm dropped. The shell casing hit the ground with a ping. It all took just under a second.

"Sorry, Webb." Ghost whispered, before he picked up an M4A1, fitted with an Aimpoint M68 sight, X3 magnifier and grippod, as well as an AN/PEQ-15 laser designator, before he walked out of the room. Webb's corpse was left there, no longer scared, no longer in pain, no longer alive.

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**A/N: Finally, sorry about the long wait for an update. Well, that was meant to be a sad ending to the otherwise bombastic chapter, please put what you thought of it in a review. Hope you enjoyed it. Also, I'm working on a massive new story, called Kill House, following a Marine from his basic training all the way to selection for the 141. It'll tie in with MW1 and 2, and bridge the gap between them. Look out for it over the next few days on Fanfiction.**

**Bradykins out.**


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